


Writing Exercises

by JustASuicideCase



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gangs, Gen, Mental Instability, Original Fiction, Psychopath, Royalty, Writer's Block is a bitch, Writing Exercise, gang leader
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21700978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustASuicideCase/pseuds/JustASuicideCase
Summary: amos is a psychopathic boss of one of the most infamous gangs in the country. alek is an unwilling member of the boss's gang. octavious is a young, incompetent king of the country.just a bunch of writing exercises about them.feel free to request, i really need it.don't steal, please and thanks.
Kudos: 2





	1. 𝔸𝕞𝕠𝕤

Basics  
Name: Amos Vegner  
Nicknames: Psychopath, Frostblood  
Gender: Male  
Right/Left: Ambidextrous  
Age: 28  
Height: 6'4"  
Weight: 190lbs  
Eye color: Hazel  
Hair color: Black  
Scars: All along his arms and legs, left temple into hairline, edge of right eyebrow to bridge of nose, more on his face.

Family/Religion  
Parents: His father is a wandering traveler, meaning he leaves for months at a time any chance he gets. Mother is Nino Vegner, though most know her as the White Crow.  
Siblings: None to his knowledge, father may have some children.  
Relationship Status: Single due to his inability to feel emotion  
Significant Other/s: Many because he manipulates men and women into being with him to get what he wants  
Children: No  
Other Relatives: All of his extended family doesn't live in Ashruk  
Pets: Albino boa constrictor named Basilisk  
Friends: Only has people who don't owe him anything and follow him without question  
Enemies: Anyone who owes him money  
Other Relationships: None  
Ethnicity: Caucasian  
Religion: Agnostic  
Beliefs: Only believes when someone dies; they die.  
Superstitions: None  
Accent: Little bit northern Ashrukian, but mostly neutral

School/Work/Home  
Highest Education: Graduated with his 3rd education (high school), though many argue that he has attended and completed all of the 4th (college)  
Degrees: None that are legal  
Occupation: Currently is a gang leader who plans to overthrow the incompetent king  
Employment History: Plumber, Servant to a high ranking merchant, Server at a high-end restaurant, Server at a low-end restaurant, and many more.  
Salary: Depends on the quantity of jobs he had  
Status and Money: Leader of the most feared gang in Ashruk; roughly makes 300k tribes ($250k)  
Own/Rent: Own  
Mode of Transportation: Usually walks

Psychology  
Fears: Isn't capable of fear  
Secrets: Almost everything about him is a secret.  
IQ: 150  
Eating Habits: Has a balanced meal for all three meals of the day.  
Food Preferences: Doesn't care as long as it provides him with energy to go throughout the day  
Sleeping Habits: Typically get 5-6 hours every couple nights  
Book Preferences: Prefers non-fiction to fiction. Reads the limited selection of psychology books, more specifically, psychopathy.  
Movie Preferences: Doesn't waste money on watching the movies, but once he noticed the increased interest in cinema, he opened a theatre.  
Groups/Alone: Alone  
Leader/Follower: Leader  
Planned Out/Spontaneous: Planned Out with several other plans in case one goes wrong  
Journal Entries: Keeps financial journals; keeping track of how much he spent on the numerous business ventures (movie theatre, night club, etc.) and how much his gang earned through jobs.  
Hobbies: Reading psychopathy books, doing little jobs, tracking people who owe him money  
How Do They Relax: See Hobbies  
What Excites Them: Getting the money he's owed or getting paid  
Pet Peeves: Not obeying  
Prejudices: Limps/other physical issues. Sees them as weak and thinks them useless.  
Attitudes: A solid block of ice until he gets angry  
Stressors: Mentioning drug use/brothels (due to his overpowering mother working in one/doing them), Withholding information, Not giving him the money he's owed  
Obsessions: Always checking the finance book  
Addictions: The adrenaline of jobs/beating people for money  
Ambitions: To be king  
As Seen By Others: A ruthless man that will kill everyone you love to get what he wants  
As Seen By Self: A ruthless man that will kill anyone to get what he wants

Astrology/Physiology  
Birth Date: 17 October 1991  
Time of Birth: Afternoon  
Zodiac Sign and Traits: Libra; Cooperative, Diplomatic, Carries grudges  
Chinese Sign and Traits: Ram; Cooperative, Persistent, Hard-working  
Handwriting: Good  
Sexual History: Only when necessary to convince the other person they were together  
General Health: Tries to keep himself as healthy as possible  
Medical History: Besides catching the common cold as a kid, nothing worse than that  
Allergies: None  
Chronic Illnesses: None  
Handicaps: Other than being a psychopath, none

Objects Kept In  
Purse/Bag: Doesn't carry either, sees them as decor and a waste  
Wallet: Tribes, IDs, a little knife somewhere  
Fridge: Healthy foods and drinks, probably has a weapon hidden in there somewhere  
Medicine Cabinet: Small medical supplies (bandaids, isopropyl alcohol, etc.)  
Glove Compartment: Doesn't own a car  
Junk Drawer: Junk drawer doesn't really apply to him. Everything is organized. But, in this drawer, probably has a small book to keep records in (probably from several years ago)  
Bedroom Hiding Place: Psychopathy/psychology books, notes from those books, his first knife  
Kitchen Cabinets: More healthy foods with weapons hidden in the fake backs  
Closets: All his suits/"casual clothes" (literally just the suits without the blazers), has a couple weapons hidden on the shelf above  
Backpack: Has the same opinion on backpacks as he does with bags/purses  
Locker: Has no need for a locker, he owns a condo  
Desk: Books, ranging from when he first took lead to present day, notes about previous jobs (to analyze what strategies worked then and how he could replicate them now)  
Clothes Pocket: Tribes, pocket knife, numerous IDs/other forms of identification


	2. Childhood Memory - 1

Bright neon signs both hurt his eyes and enticed him to approach the club. ‘The Nest’ read the bright blue letters. They bathed him in their neon glow as the young boy approached the entrance of the club. Uncertain, Amos peaked his head into the entrance. A hand placed itself on his small chest before a strong voice boomed from above, “Woah there, kiddo. Where the hell you think you’re goin’?”

His neck began to cramp when he looked up at the tall man, “I’m going off to see my mum.” The bouncer laughed, shaking his head lightly with his eyes closed. “I’m sure you’re too young to be seein’ what’s goin’ on in there, bucko. Now, run off, I gotta line formin’ behind ya.” He pushed the child back before focusing on the irritated men behind him. Amos questioned what the man meant by he was too young. Making sure the bouncer was busy checking the desperate folks, the small boy slipped under the velvet rope and sneaked inside.

The inside was extravagant. Oil lamps cast a soft light from their places on the walls. Cushioned booths lined the walls, which seemed popular, seeing how many people piled on them with their own cup of mysterious liquid. While most were up and dancing, some sat on the comfortable booths or on another person’s lap, some stood around the bar, chatting or feeling up the person next to them.

“That White Crow bitch. I swear she only got hired ‘cause she sucked the owner’s cock.” He barely picked up the phrase over the swelling music from the live band. Amos’s eyes landed on the man who said the insult sitting at the bar with another man, holding an ice cube to his closed, blackened eye. So his mother was working tonight. After some time of scanning and strangers casting strange looks upon the child in the brothel, Amos finally spotted his mother.

She stood by an entrance covered by a silky, see-through curtain. Her uniform—a white corset with crimson ribbons weaving to-and-fro, a masquerade mask decorated in bleached crow feathers, a short skirt that hid almost nothing, and tall stilettos in the same fashion as her mask—blended in with a wall behind her. The young boy pushed his way to her.

As he approached, he saw his mother whispering something into a man’s ear. Though the club was too lively to hear what she was murmuring to him, the stranger’s cheeks flushed red, and it blew his pupils out. “What are you doing here?” His mother looked down her nose at him, eyes squinted. Though he was used to that same scornful voice, Amos still shrank in his raggedy overcoat. He stuttered before he finally squeezed out, “Dad’s home, and he wants to see you.”

Never had he seen her so furious. Amos followed his mother’s footprints in the recent snowfall back to their cramped apartment. Before he turned the knob, he pressed his ear to the door. They argued for a bit, like they normally did when his father returned from his months long travels, before he heard his father say. “My dear, let’s not argue about money now. I brought us a little present.”

Amos pressed his eye to the keyhole. His father held two small bags—one of white powder, the other of small, cloudy rocks. He heard his mother gasp as she ran for an embrace and deep kiss. They sat on the ragged couch and poured out the white powder first. He pulled back; he had seen enough to know what to do for the night.

He wondered down the narrow hall, pondering where he could stay for the night. His apartment was off-limits now. The memory was too fresh in his mind; phantom hits, slaps, and degrading words seared into his body and mind. Outside was normally fine, except nature cursed him with a rare late-autumn snow. He would freeze to death if he tried to sleep outside tonight. The kid wondered the streets, contemplating where he could sleep for the night and, if he was lucky, the next couple of nights. Once again, he stumbled back to his mother’s workplace.

Once boisterous, the line completely disappeared in hours. How many hours did he sit there, listening to his parents argue? Had to be at least four, maybe five. He shook his head. The bouncer, shivering and his teeth chattering, still outside, guarding the club. Mustering everything he had, Amos approached the man for the second time that night.

The bald man chuckled, “Hey kid, didn’t I tell ya that you’re too young to be in ‘ere?” He meekly nodded, grasping the thin coat closer to his body. “Then the hell you doin’ back ‘ere?” He took a gasper from his pocket, stuffed it between his lips, and lit it. “I was hopin’ I could sleep ‘ere for a night?” His green eyes shone with desperation. The man sighed, smoke drifted out of his mouth, “You’re tootin’ the wrong ringer, kid. I just work ‘ere, nothin’ more, nothin’ less. And that’s the crop, kiddo.” A moment passed between the two. Amos wracked his head; he had to get into the club somehow.

“Fine, c’mon, kid.”

Amos eagerly followed the giant man into the building. For a reason unknown to him, everyone deserted the club. Without the clamour of guests and music blasting from the jazz band, the place had a relaxing atmosphere. It was like the small, modest pub it was a year ago. The bouncer gave Amos no time to observe the leftover mess from the party with the pace he was walking. Before he knew it, the boy laid on a semi-inflated blow-up mattress with a pillow and a soft blanket in a backroom.

Before he allowed himself to sleep, the boy went through his nightly routine of checking all the exits, collect anything that could a weapon, and listening to his surroundings. His eyes, weighed down by cinderblocks, closed much faster than they normally did. In a sleepy haze, he could hear several voices in the room next to his. He forced himself to stay awake to listen in on their conversation.

“Wait, ya mean that one kid you turned away earlier?” questioned a higher pitch voice, most likely a female. “Ya, Becc, that one,” groaned the same bouncer he encountered too many times today. A much lower voice laughed, “God, Mark, you and your big heart will be the death of ya, I swear it.” Mark groaned again. A moment passed before he asked, “Which worker even hassa kid?” The others mumbled, not knowing the answer. “Not to mention that they let a bloody eleven-year-old walk around this early in the mornin’ and in this weather,” the deeper voice murmured. The three bouncers continued chatting before they said goodnight to one another.

Only when he heard three sets of footsteps did Amos relax. This was probably the most comfortable bed he’s slept on in his young life. For the first time in almost a decade, sleep came easy and quick.


	3. Amos's Therapy

Tiny snowflakes drifted from the pale sky. Thinning pine trees shrank in their pots on the sidewalk. Amos scoffed, never understanding the reasoning behind putting the useless plants in his way. It’s not like they could help clear the decades-worth of pollution in the blasted city. Many pedestrians pulled their winter coats closer to their shivering figure. A small shiver ran down his spine, goosebumps followed closely behind, as another draft of freezing air slipped inside the wool of his jacket. One quick look showed the snow would start falling harder soon. He copied his peers’ actions and bundled tighter until he reached his destination.

The office was nothing to marvel at. Boring bricks made up its walls and the same glass door let him see that it was almost empty. He sighed, the wispy breath lifted into the air as he made his way inside. He checked with the receptionist, waited for a moment, then walked into Irene’s office. Amos immediately went into his routine whenever he entered her cramped space. He slipped off his coat, folded it in half, and hung it on the hook behind the door. Another part of the routine was to observe his surroundings and the older woman sitting behind the desk.

Much like the outside, her office was nothing to marvel at. The same miniature figures of famous landmarks all over the continent lined her desk and empty spaces on her bookshelves. Pictures of her family stay hung on the walls, accompanied by an occasional picture of more landmarks. The therapist herself reflected the office—boring. Irene Cooper was a woman in her late-forties, though she looked twenty years older. Her grey hair was thinning, an untrained eye wouldn’t be able to guess with her beehive hairstyle. She wore her wedding ring, always polished, and her prescription reading glasses on a chain around her neck which she refused to wear.

“Amos? Are you ready for the session to start?” Irene’s nasally voice cut through his analysis. He met her eyes, “As always, Cooper.” She shook her head and lightly scolded him about the use of her last name, “You know you can call me Irene.” Obviously he did, but he knew he had to keep their relationship strictly professional. How could he use her if she thought of him as a friend or worse—a son?

Their session continued as usual. Irene tried to make progress—discuss his parents, tell him to find friends, anything that could help her help him—while Amos deflected her questions effortlessly. “Amos,” her tone had an edge that caught his attention, “Why do you come here? You constantly refuse to answer any of my questions. If you want help, you need to give me something I can work with.” They sat in silence, neither knowing how to respond. Amos shifted in his chair and leaned towards her, his arms crossed. “Give you something to work with? What exactly do you mean, Cooper?” He knew the answer—she knew it too, but she played along and asked more questions.

Gas lamps hanging on the ceiling lit up as they talked. The artificial light made Amos’s skin crawl. Hours after the sessions should have ended passed. Irene interrogated him, prodding about his early life, his parents, his career—everything that she never got through the years seeing him. As he recounted his parents’ treatment to him, an emotion overcame him, one he had never felt before. It wasn’t the blinding rage that drove his hand to toss victims into the canal, nor was it the emptiness he had grown used to over the years. This emotion made words catch in his throat and tears prick his eyes. While Irene whispered words of comfort to him, he chided himself. This was childish behaviour. He shouldn’t be acting like this, especially in front of someone.

Throughout the process, Amos found his eyes drifted towards her face. She scribbled notes on a small notepad. He continued rambled as he scanned her writing.

‘Finally displaying emotion’  
‘Psychotherapy: possibility?’  
‘Tendency to blame others’

The foreign emotion vanished and fury took its place. An image flashed in his mind. He grabbed the small knife from his pant’s pocket, lunged over the table, and repeatedly plunged it into her abdomen as she pleads for her life. His eye began to twitch as he read more notes while he spouted nonsense.

“Don’t look down your nose at me.” He snapped. Irene, startled by the outrage, stared at him in bewilderment. She opened her mouth to question him, but Amos spoke first, “You heard me. You don’t have the bloody right to interrogate me with these useless questions, then judge me for my answers.” She tried to reason, but her pleas fell on deaf ears. He stood up abruptly, knocking the chair onto the wooden floor. Slamming both hands on her desk, he leaned over the desk, “You want to know what the hell I’ve been through? What I do for a living? Is that what you want from me?” A twisted smile snaked its way onto his face.

“From ages eight all the way to eighteen, I raised myself. That entire decade, all I learned was how to survive. Not to play, not to have fun—how to find food in the wastebin and where I could sleep when they got too high. And, you are right, it was very formative for me, because now, I’m the leader of a mafia. Not just any gang though, the most infamous one in all of Goldmere.” He forced out a laugh, eyeing the terrified woman in front of him like a predator does his prey.

Irene swallowed the lump in her throat. “Amos, you know that’s not what I meant by my notes. But I do appreciate you sharing this information. I promise that… piece will stay between us.”  
“You really think I believe that?” Amos scoffed.  
“Believe what?”  
“That admitting to leading the Ravens won’t find its way to the police.”  
“That’s our confidentiality agreem-”  
“If I show to be a danger to myself or others, you must go to law enforcement. Saying I lead a gang that kills gives you the right to violate that agreement.”

Her wide eyes darted across the room before focusing on the door behind him. Amos’s eyebrows rose as he cockily asked, “What, got nothing to analyse, Cooper?”

She shifted back in her seat, a white-knuckled grip on the arms of the chair. “It’s clear your child-your childhood impacted you into the present. The lack of significant influence from either parent affected your personality beyond what anyone could have thought. Your… desires reflect this. As you describe, you’ve always wanted to… to kill something, someone, hence why you joined the Crimson Ravens to begin with.” Her breathing quickened as she stated, still not looking at him, “You are right, I will have to report you to the police after this session is over. But, I can just report you a danger to yourself. You’ll go the-go to an institute for a few days then you’d be back out.”

Maniacal laughter bounced off the dull walls. “Are you joking?” Amos asked when he calmed down, “I told you I’m the leader of the Ravens. You think there aren’t people have been waiting to take my spot? The second I leave, my position evaporates, therefore, my safety.” Tiny figurines crashed onto the ground, covering the floor in shattered glass as he sprang over the desk. Irene struggled as he pinned her to the dirty ground. His hand reached into his pant’s pocket, same sick grin plastered onto his face. The small knife glinted in the warm glow of the lamp. “Don’t it personally, Cooper. You just have to understand it’s just for business.” Disgusting squelches and screams sounded as the dagger impaled her stomach repeatedly, in and out.

Eventually, the life faded from Irene as her body fell limp against the ground. Amos stood up and dusted off his trousers. He walked towards his chair and slid into his coat. He looked at the corpse of his former therapist before he sauntered out of her office. Ignoring the faint pang in his heart, Amos wrapped the warm wool around himself as he made his way down the block, mentally reminding himself to tell one of his cleaners about the body.


	4. 𝔸𝕝𝕖𝕜

Basics  
Name: Alekstandov Creni  
Nicknames: Alek  
Gender: Male  
Right/Left: Right  
Age: 22  
Height: 5'10"  
Weight: 147lbs  
Eye color: Kelly Green  
Hair color: Rust  
Marks: Missing his left eye, 'X' across the wound

Family/Religion  
Parents: Mother died during childbirth. Father, Nika Creni, is a gambler  
Siblings: Older brother left him and his father due to Nika's gambling problem "didn't want to end up in the wrong crowd"  
Relationship Status: Single in beginning, With Octavious later  
Significant Other/s: Many past ones, future relationship with Octavious  
Children: None and never wants them.  
Other Relatives: Older brother moved away, same with his other family  
Pets: Considers a stray alley cat his pet. She is a black cat with white spots, one eye is pure blue and the other is half-blue, half-brown. Her name is Spotty.  
Friends: Had some friends, but none after Amos cut out his eye (because, typically, when Amos comes across someone and marks them, it means anyone near them is also a target)  
Enemies: Amos (reason stated above)  
Other Relationships: None  
Ethnicity: Caucasian  
Religion: Believes in all Ashruk gods & goddesses  
Beliefs: The usual beliefs with that religion  
Superstitions: None  
Accent: Ashrukian

School/Work/Home  
Highest Education: Barely graduated 3rd school (high school)  
Degrees: None  
Occupation: Mid-tier member of Amos's gang  
Employment History: Worked as a fisher, but then joined Amos's gang  
Salary: Pay changes on what job he did, but it's always 20%  
Status and Money: Is paid well on his position; typically makes 15k per job  
Own/Rent: Rent  
Mode of Transportation: Walks, sometimes takes public transportation

Psychology  
Fears: Subconsciously is afraid of Amos, doesn't want to be like his father, of trusting someone  
Secrets: His past, mostly, and his insecurities/fears.  
IQ: 133  
Eating Habits: Whatever he can get his hands on  
Food Preferences: Doesn't care as long as it tastes good  
Sleeping Habits: Sleeps a full 8 hours whenever he can  
Book Preferences: Barely reads, but when he does, history books.  
Movie Preferences: Has only seen a couple movies, but all were based on true events, so those kind.  
Groups/Alone: Group  
Leader/Follower: Follower but can also be leader  
Planned Out/Spontaneous: If it's life or death, planned out. If it's a small thing, spontaneous  
Journal Entries: Documenting the jobs he's put on, his pay, anything Amos does that Alek can use in a court (though he wouldn't dare take him to the corrupt justice system)  
Hobbies: Doesn't usually have time for hobbies, but when he does, thinking of things he'll be able to do once he's away from Amos  
How Do They Relax: Reading  
What Excites Them: Getting paid a lot/every time he gets paid  
Pet Peeves: People looking at him  
Prejudices: Everyone in the gang is a low-life and deserves life in prison  
Attitudes: Tries his hardest to act strong but is actually really sad and just wants someone to hold him  
Stressors: Amos standing too close to him, watching Amos aggressively beat someone, basically just Amos  
Obsessions: Always thinking of ways to stay away from the leader  
Addictions: He tries to stay away from anything that may be addicting; drinking, drugs, especially gambling. He doesn't want to be like his father.  
Ambitions: Wants to move to somewhere nice (like Osmana) and never be reminded of his life in Ashruk  
As Seen By Others: A mini-Amos. He's a block of ice that you shouldn't waste time begging for your life to.  
As Seen By Self: A boy terrified of the man everyone thinks he admires.

Astrology/Physiology  
Birth Date: 24 December 1995  
Time of Birth: Early morning  
Zodiac Sign and Traits: Capricorn; Responsible, Disciplined, Self-control, Demeaning  
Chinese Sign and Traits: Pig; Honest, Big heart, Calm appearance  
Handwriting: Anyone can read it, but it's not perfect  
Sexual History: A couple people, but never set it as a priority  
General Health: For someone with one eye, pretty good  
Medical History: Had to go to the hospital after Amos severed his eye  
Allergies: None  
Chronic Illnesses: None  
Handicaps: Half-blind

Objects Kept In  
Purse/Bag: Doesn't carry one  
Wallet: Tribes, IDs  
Fridge: Drinks (water, juice, etc.)  
Medicine Cabinet: Pain pills (for his eye), medical kit  
Glove Compartment: Doesn't own a car  
Junk Drawer: Literally looks like a tornado ripped through there. When he doesn't know what to do with an object, he throws it in there. A couple old pens, papers with notes scribbled on them, bunch of random things  
Bedroom Hiding Place: His mother's wedding ring he took from his father (so he didn't bet it away as he did with his own), other mementos of his mother (majority he got from his brother before he left)  
Kitchen Cabinets: Just food  
Closets: The different uniforms for the variety of jobs he's had while doing a job  
Backpack: Doesn't carry a backpack  
Locker: Doesn't own a locker  
Desk: Has a large supply of colored ink pens (only red, blue, and black, per Amos's request),  
Clothes Pocket: Different IDs, spare Tribes, probably a note for someone he has to deliver


	5. Alek's Promotion

Heavy taps filled the abandoned streets. It was very early in the morning. Evil, sadistic thoughts ran frantically throughout his mind as Amos made his way down the street. The sun sheltered behind the horizon, protecting itself from the chaos that ran within his head. The moon, confident in its ability to withstand the anarchy, stood high above him and everyone in the city.

Tap, tap, tap. The cane's taps grew in speed as the man grew inpatient. He needed to rid himself of these images thrusting themselves into his mind. Clouds shrouded the moon's light, forcing him to rely on his memory of his home's streets. For the first time in his life, Amos thanked his parents for raising him here—the hotspot for crime. Without them, he would have started in the middle of nowhere in Goldmere most likely. He laughed at the thought.

Streetlights flickered as his pace quickened. Violent images whirled around in his head. He needed to rid himself of them.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Amos stood in front of the apartment building for a second. It had change some in the months he was away. Gone was the pristine complex he funded and was proud of. Now a disgustingly run-down building stood in its place. A window on the third story shattered, littering the flat with glass shards. The white paint, freshly applied not even three months ago, was now chipping away, exposing the old, burnt frame.

Blood boiling in his veins, he flung open the door and charged inside. All of his hard work, gone within a blink of an eye. More thoughts came into his mind. He threw up the dilapidated staircase. Despite the painful ache in his legs, he forced himself up to the fifth floor and into his apartment.

Like the rest of the building, a mysterious person utterly destroyed his flat. Year's worth of research and records covered the once clean carpet. He bent down to pick up some books on the ground. His prized psychopathy books were among the ruin—bent, parts of pages ripped, covers barely hanging on. Memories came into his mind as he surveyed the wreckage. Him coming home as a child, only to find his tiny living area demolished by his parents. Before he could sink into a ball of self-pity and succumb to the recollections of his past, he heard voices.

Rustling papers and yells filled the silent room. Amos pressed his ear against his bedroom door and listened to the argument. A faint voice was talking, something about telling someone not to do something. Another responded, loudly enough to hear and recognise his voice, "The fuck do you mean? You know him, he's a fuckin' psycho! You should be helpin' me out here, Alek; the fuckin' psycho cut out your damn eye!" The two bickered back and forth as Amos stepped back.

Edward Rowe and Alek Creni, two of his most loyal men, or so he thought. Edward was his number two, so to speak. He trusted that man with counting money to rescuing him in the off chance an enemy gang taking him. The latter proved too much for the petite man, seeing as for the past three months Amos was being continuously tortured by rivals without a shred of hope for someone to save him. Alek, though, showed continuous loyalty to him, the gang, and the effort to restore the monarchy—even after their first interaction.

The door slammed against the wall as Amos barged in. As he predicted, Edward stood at his desk, a case full of unknown objects messily thrown inside of it in his hand, and faced Alek, who had his back against the window. Both of his subordinates' head snapped towards the source of the sudden noise. Amos's small second-in-command threw the case onto the ground as he exclaimed his boss's name. No one dared to make a move, for it could mean the end of their life.

"Do either of you have a weapon on you?" He forced the anger out of his voice and features as the intruders shook their heads. Amos nodded and gestured towards the table tipped over in the kitchen. Alek and Edward flipped over the table while Amos searched for the chairs that went with the set. He found them in the hall and living room and brought them to the kitchen. They all sat. Silence prodded them as the three searched for words.

Amos started, "Did you two do this to my flat?"  
"I did, sir. Alek had no part in the act," Edward confessed. Amos looked at Alek.  
"Why are you here, then?"  
"I-" Alek glanced at Edward for a moment before continuing. "I saw Ed chargin' to here and came to see what was up wit' 'im."

He hummed in response and looked back at Edward. "Why did you do this?" Tension grew in the room as Edward surveyed his destruction, purposefully delaying his answer. Minutes passed before he spoke in a hushed tone, "I was pissed, I guess, sir." The boss told him to elaborate. "I thought you jus' up'n'left. Thought I would have to run the gang all by myself, sir." Edward picked the packed dirt from his fingernails as he explained, not daring to meet the boss's unsympathetic eyes. "You destroyed my home like a toddler because of it? Maybe I made a mistake picking you to be the future leader of this corporation," he muttered the last part just loud enough for the two men to pick up on. Edward's head snapped up, pleading to keep his position in the gang and how it was a one-time thing.

Without responding to the begging man in front of him, Amos turned his gaze onto Alek.

"Did you endorse these actions?"  
The man shook his head  
"Would've you done these things, if you were in his position?"  
Another shake.  
"What would've you done, then?"

Alek sat for a second before responding, "I would have checked on your location. To see if you left or somethin'." Edward's pleading grew louder and more frantic. "What if I left, what would you do?" Amos leaned forwards, tuning out the begs, and placed his head on his intertwined fingers. "Taken over, sir." "And if a rival gang took me?" "Search for you."

Edward began crying, sobs interrupted pleas. Amos slammed his hand on the table and turned to the sobbing man, eyes blazing, "Shut up! You brought this upon yourself, Rowe." It all happened too fast. The chair fell as the boss abruptly stood. Before Edward could react, a curved knife carved into the flesh of his throat, ear-to-ear. Sickening squelches filled the air as Amos pulled his dagger out of his neck. The blade dripped the blood of his former second-in-command. Alek backed up to the edge of the counter, eyes frozen on the corpse of his friend. Edward's body had fallen out of his chair and laid on the floor, his blood seeped into the papers that littered the floor. Tension rose as Amos bent down, cut a large strip from Edward's shirt, and began to clean his knife.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?" His eyes stay fixated on the dirty blade. Words caught in his throat, "Yeah." Amos nodded, slowly polishing the stained knife. Before long, he held the weapon towards a dim lamp, inspected it, and slid in back into his pants' pocket. "Well, lucky you! A position just opened as my number two, which I'm sure you'll love to jump at the chance, correct?" A sick grin crawled up his lips. Without a response, Amos went on, "I want you to start immediately." Alek nodded, terrified as he started into the emotionless eyes of his boss. The grin grew more, "Good, I want you to get a bagger and clean up this mess."

As he was walking out of the messy flat, Amos laid a hand on his new second-in-commands and whispered, "Hope you enjoy the promotion, number two." Grin now long forgotten, the boss limped out of the place in search of one of his medics to patch him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed, leave a kudos or a comment!


	6. 𝕆𝕔𝕥

Basics  
Name: Octavious Ravimoux  
Nicknames: Your highness, king, other royal names. Prefers to be called Oct  
Gender: Male  
Right/Left: Right  
Age: 21  
Height: 6'  
Weight: 155lbs  
Eye color: Dull Blue  
Hair color: Blond  
Marks: Freckles all over his face  
All physical traits in a passage:

Family/Religion  
Parents: Both parents, Loni and Ritck, were killed while visiting a distant island kingdom. Not an assassination, but they were stung by a venomous wasp and were found dead.  
Siblings: None.  
Relationship Status: No matter how hard he tries, none of the servants/guards want to continue his conversation  
Significant Other/s: None, later, Alek  
Children: None but he doesn't really want kids  
Other Relatives: All of his uncles and aunts are fighting in war (on Goldmere's side)  
Pets: Was never allowed pets in the castle due to his father's allergy to them, but has always wanted a lion or other exotic cat  
Friends: Everyone either fakes being his friend for his power or hates his ruling style  
Enemies: The entire kingdom  
Other Relationships: None  
Ethnicity: Caucasian  
Religion: Agnostic  
Beliefs: If you hear it enough times, it's true, older folks have more wisdom  
Superstitions: Regular ones (walking under a ladder, tipping a salt shaker etc. bring bad luck)  
Accent: Posh Ashrukian (closest to posh British)

School/Work/Home  
Highest Education: Royal schools. Currently attending an royalty-league 4th school (ivy-league university)  
Degrees: None yet, but will get one in business, world affairs, and Ashrukian history  
Occupation: King of Ashruk  
Employment History: Hasn't worked a day in his life  
Salary: 250k Tribes. Currently, with the war, most of his money goes towards the front  
Status and Money: Highest ranking, officially. Hated by majority of his subjects. Makes ~250k Tribes a year  
Own/Rent: Own  
Mode of Transportation: Prefers car, but isn't opposed to other ways of transportation

Psychology  
Fears: Assassination, spiders, and dogs  
Secrets: Only one (beside his advisors) that knows he really doesn't decide anything  
IQ: 102  
Eating Habits: Whatever his servants cook for him, he eats without question  
Food Preferences: Likes sweets  
Sleeping Habits: Gets 8 hours every night, couple more hours randomly throughout the day  
Book Preferences: Classics  
Movie Preferences: Old-time  
Groups/Alone: Group  
Leader/Follower: Follower  
Planned Out/Spontaneous: Spontaneous  
Journal Entries: What decisions the counsel made that day, his actual thoughts on them  
Hobbies: Likes to write. Plans on writing his own book about his role in the puppet government  
How Do They Relax: Write, read, watch films  
What Excites Them: When someone listens to his advice  
Pet Peeves: Being talked over, people chewing the ends of pens  
Prejudices: He tries his best to be unbiased, but dislikes Goldmarians. His family are extreme nationalists and are in the war against them  
Attitudes: Tends to be submissive  
Stressors: Rallies against him  
Obsessions: His handwriting. He spends hours of his day just writing, so it should be perfect, right?  
Addictions: Caffeine  
Ambitions: Wants to be a real king  
As Seen By Others: A complete moron who needs to step off of the throne  
As Seen By Self: Someone who is trying his best to accommodate everyone but always seems to fail

Astrology/Physiology  
Birth Date: March 3rd, 1997  
Time of Birth: Early morning  
Zodiac Sign and Traits: Pisces; Self-sacrificing, sensitive, intuitive  
Chinese Sign and Traits: Ox; Moody, diligent, persistent  
Handwriting: Near-perfect  
Sexual History: None  
General Health: Some negative thoughts about himself, nothing else  
Medical History: Fine  
Allergies: Cotton trees  
Chronic Illnesses: None  
Handicaps: None

Objects Kept In  
Purse/Bag: Pages of writing, pens, books  
Wallet: Tribes, ID  
Fridge: Almost nothing, just some drinks and half-eaten chocolate bars.  
Medicine Cabinet:  
Glove Compartment: Weapon (self-defense only), identification papers  
Junk Drawer: Bunch of random things; pens, pencils, markers, old writing  
Bedroom Hiding Place: Little things from his extended family  
Kitchen Cabinets: Jars of sweets and other junk food  
Closets: Clothes, books, journals  
Backpack: N/A  
Locker: N/A  
Desk: Pages of writing, pens, documents  
Clothes Pocket: Spare Tribes, keys to the separate rooms in the palace & car

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this (for some reason) leave a comment and maybe request something if you want!


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